I spend time in your room,
I look at your photographs,
I listen to your videos,
I read your poetry,
but I don’t feel that you were real.

I see you,
I know you were real,
I can still smell you,
I know you are with me,
but I don’t feel you.

Perhaps it’s my mind’s way of protecting me from what’s real,
I don’t want to believe you’re gone,
I don’t want to put your things away,
Perhaps, if I just pretend you were real, you will not go away,
I think not.